


The Sound Of My Soul

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Grumpy Athos, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Porthos Plays Guitar, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 11:30:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11988894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: In which Porthos plays guitar and Athos is grumpy.Until he isn't.





	The Sound Of My Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ComeHitherAshes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeHitherAshes/gifts).



> Written for a prompt for my good friend Croft, who also gets all the credit for her awesome assistance. Wasn't supposed to be this angsty, but that's what happens when Athos and I do a thing. Hopefully there's enough fluff to make up for it.

Third morning in a row.

It’s the third godforsaken morning in a row that he’s been woken by the bastard playing a guitar down on the street beneath his window. Each note pierces his skull, a clanging alarm bell, his headache pulsing in agonising response, in collusion.

Dragging a pillow over his head muffles the sound, but the noise still worms its way in, incessant, infuriating. Insufferable.

Carefully manoeuvring himself upright, eyes squeezed shut against the expected wave of nausea, Athos musters energy he doesn’t yet have, preparing for the overdue confrontation, desperate for silence.

On his way to the door, Athos stumbles, foot hitting something that topples over and lands with a clink. The empty bottle rolls to a stop against the wall, taunting him. Athos glares back, unamused, leaves it lying there.

Down on the street, his nemesis is surrounded by a small audience who are all oblivious to his scowling. Their polite applause reverberates in his head and in the blessed relief between songs, Athos pounces.

“Would you please take yourself and that bloody guitar elsewhere. I am trying to sleep.”

He somehow manages to retain his mask of fury even when a pair of dark, guileless eyes turn to fix upon him. It’s the heart-stopping smile, warm and friendly, that accompanies them that almost has him wavering.

The gaze sweeps down his body and back up again, full of unconcealed amusement, and Athos is suddenly uncomfortably aware that he is barefoot and covered by only a threadbare dressing gown that has seen better days. He’s fairly certain he is wearing boxers beneath. Probably.

“It’s almost noon.”

That’s a fair enough point—although Athos has no idea what the time actually is—and he briefly considers concocting a story about working nights. But something in that open, genial expression kills the lie on his tongue.

“That’s of no consequence,” he snaps instead, forcing his irritation back to the surface. “Go and play this pitiful excuse for music somewhere other than my doorstep.”

The smile falls away, and Athos wants desperately to snatch the words back as hurt flashes briefly in those dark eyes. But then they harden, all trace of laughter vanished.

“Harsh.” He surges to his feet and Athos braces himself for the punch he’s certain is about to come, invites it. No fist connects with his face, but he’s feeling just as stricken as the man shoulders his guitar and turns away. “Don’t worry, I’m gone.”

Athos watches as he weaves his way through the passing shoppers until he disappears around the corner, and suddenly the street feels empty. Soulless. He hauls himself back up to the flat and straight into the icy spray of the shower, feeling like the worst kind of bastard.

Just another regret to add to the long list that makes up his life.

* * * *

There’s no music the next morning. Nor the next. Just the usual hustle of the shoppers and tourists weaving their way along the little street of antique dealers and second hand book shops.

Its absence makes Athos feel inexplicably sad.

Determined to put it out of his mind, Athos carries on as usual, only to catch himself glancing out of the window at the street below with something like hope. Cursing his foolishness, he resolutely drops the blind and sets about dealing with the memory in his usual way.

Drowning it.

A frustrated search, however, only reveals the extent to which the empty bottle has multiplied and there’s nothing else for it but to make the trek to the shop.

It’s when he’s on his way back that he hears it, stops dead in the middle of the footpath and ignores the grumbles of the woman who narrowly avoids colliding with him. He’s focused solely on the man sat on the corner, playing guitar left hand, fingers deftly, effortlessly, weaving notes, creating the music now missing from Athos’s life.

As the song fades to an end, Athos snaps out of his trance, and, on a whim, ducks into the nearest coffee shop. Moments later, he’s back under the scrutiny of those deep brown eyes. He watches recognition dawn, swiftly followed by wary suspicion.

“What’s that?”

He’s looking at the cardboard cup Athos is holding out, possibly wondering if its contents are about to be thrown over him.

“A peace offering.” _An apology_. Athos has been granted this chance to make amends, and he’s not going to waste it. No regrets this time.

There’s a worrying pause, then relief as his meagre offering is accepted with a word of thanks and an expectant look. “Athos,” he says in polite introduction, and is that a hint of that smile returning?

“Porthos.”

“I owe you an apology, Porthos.” It has been a long time since Athos has felt the need to apologise for anything, but now it seems important that he do it right. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that the other morning, nor insulted your music. I just…I was having a bad morning.”

Porthos smiles in sage sympathy. “Hangover?”

Had it been that obvious? “One would think I should be used to it by now.”

Something worryingly like concern clouds Porthos’s eyes, and Athos is uncomfortably aware of the contents of the carrier bag at his side. He quickly directs the subject safely away from himself.

“How long have you been playing?”

Porthos shrugs. “Long’s I c’n remember. Didn't have much growin’ up, treasured what I did ’ave.”

His words paint a stark picture of a childhood vastly different to Athos’s own, making Athos feel even worse about his rash outburst.

“Please don’t let me stop you now. You’re really rather good.”

His face lights up, teeth flashing in a broad grin that sears itself indelibly onto Athos’s mind, as full of joy as his music. His fingers begin to move again, a new song beginning, the notes chasing Athos as he wends his way back home.

* * * *

He’s a third of the way into a bottle of Scotch when the music starts, and at first he thinks it’s his imagination. It’s dark outside, the street shrouded in shadows, but there, down on the kerbside beneath his window, a lone figure with his head bent over a guitar.

Bemused, he sets the tumbler with its remaining finger of whisky on the table, and heads down the stairs and out onto the still street. He’s certain Porthos knows he’s there, but he keeps playing, and Athos stands and listens, the music beautiful in the quiet of the street.

When the last chord fades, Porthos looks up, gaze immediately landing upon Athos.

“You do realise there’s nobody around to hear you?”

Porthos seems completely unconcerned by this fact, as if he hasn’t even noticed that it’s the middle of the night and everyone’s gone home.

“You’re here,” he says simply, the unarguable truth, and as if it’s all the explanation needed he begins another song, soft and melodic. That it sounds like an invitation of sorts seems fanciful to Athos’s mind, but then there’s that smile that warms him in a way the Scotch never has.

He sits down beside Porthos, close enough to feel the heat of his body, closes his eyes and lets the music wash over him.

From now on, he’ll do whatever it takes to keep the music—and the musician—in his life.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Spandau Ballet's 'True'.


End file.
